[Eviction]

A palette that resembles blood splatter, so you can see what’s left of me.
Art is my therapy, a painting that's heavenly, gives me that taste of ecstasy,
There’s no need for a prescription, this is the best medicine for stress relief.
My soul bleeds from an addiction, this easel is showing depths of my expertise.
If there’s no more paint left I’ll use my own blood, open flesh, and let them see,
That there’s no love unless you dream, so watch the canvas expose your destiny.
Accepting grief can destroy a man, so you need a place to escape, a haven.
Art can tell a story, or withhold, showing only a piece of what you gave them.
Critics called it a piece of shit or trash, I was brazen because it was a statement,
Staying complacent, erases, creations, no love of art because now you hate it.
Painstaking when the paint faded, I’ll keep a brush in case I get the craving,
Some say it’s craven, I say it’s brave when you escape this abyss you’re caged in.
The art room became a mortuary, where creativity is soon to die, of course, it’s scary,
scrutinized because of thoughts of suicide, and burdens when there’s more to carry.
This horror is a chore to bury, for me, keeping shit bottled up is far from ordinary.
It must’ve stormed every morning I thought that warning would prepare me, barely
Holding it together as the hail comes down and pierces my skin that’s not a rarity.
blood drips on the easel showing the rare scarcity is this a nightmare or a parody.
It's been 10 years since I called it quits, I gave up because no one noticed me.
Accomplishments rendered me hopeless, I could phone it in and quote poetry,
Or go to sleep knowing smoke screens got a hold of me, is this how it’s supposed to be?
I don’t agree with this old scheme, you should be able to control your dreams…
That’s off the table so it seems, you’re blinded by what you hope to achieve, that’s why…
My last piece was left unfinished, something cliché like an angel falling, broken wings.
twisted from the insanity and a hurt soul, I hate to be a turncoat but I burned both.
curtains closed on the term ghost, lessons from the museum where I learned most.
My dying wish is that beautiful art will be created from the ashes the urn holds.
finding a piece of happiness was the first goal now They drive the hearse slow,
through the neighborhood to the funeral home my art was the worst shown,
People sitting in the pews look in disbelief, who's digging the hole where the dirt goes?
A memorial made of skeleton bones, they necromancy instead of letting me lay to rest.
They took “souvenirs”, some were there to spit on my grave, nobody there to pay respect.,
There was this clothing on the statue made of flesh dishonoring the man that satin met.
On the headstone, there was an illegible epitaph, and a design similar to a bayonet.
Karma has a receipt for blatant theft, so after you leave here you might break your neck.
You’ll feel the razor’s edge if you wake the dead, I’ll come back and make you pay the debt.